Fatigue
by 39addict101
Summary: He was so tired. His bones ached with a throb that beat endlessly in his mind. For Grass-Berry09. Merry Christmas to all.


He was so tired. His bones ached with a throb that beat endlessly in his mind. His eyes were weary, and drooping eyelids sagged over dull pupils that stared out at the bustling world around him.

His throat was scratchy, and every time he swallowed, he felt a stinging, burning, scratching sensation tear down his throat along with excess saliva.

HIs tongue was parched. If only he could have a drink of water, but his throat would not allow it. The poison he had accidentally swallowed was eating him alive.

Hearing footsteps in the corridor, he sat up quickly, using all the strength he could muster. Before his eyes could register who was standing before him, a blackness whirled before his eyes, sparkling and shimmering in a dull crazed pattern.

"Who are you?" He asked, terrified. "Who's there?" The blackness became to dissipate; the light was coming back.

His son stood before him, an unreadable expression on his handsome face.

Vikram hoped that it was not hatred that had brought Ian before him, in his last days. He remembered all the times he'd pulled off his belt, drunk with anger, and whipped the boy until he could barely walk.

He remembered the child's pleas to leave Natalie alone, which had infuriated him even more. God, why had he hurt his son?

"I heard." Ian's voice was gruff. "I had to come see you."

Vikram swallowed, and cringed at the knife that tore down his throat, rushing along with saliva. "I know. Your mother is a very smart woman. She tricked me all too easily."

Ian shook his head. "It wasn't her. She knows nothing of poison. She thinks Providence is finally giving you what you deserve. You hurt her too, you know."

Vikram stared down at the gray tiles of the hospital floor. "I know. I know. It's one of the worst things I could have done." He paused, and looked into his son's amber eyes, which were so much like his mother's. "Was it you?"

Ian nodded. "Yes. It was me. I poured the Lucian serum five thousand, four hundred and twenty-two into your water bottle when we were "forgiving" each other. I couldn't do it. You hurt me, you scarred me."

His eyes flashed a cruel amber fire, and he continued, "You didn't see Natalie's face in your head, her large eyes brimming with tears. She didn't come to you, asking softly if you would bandage her cuts. NO! Of course she didn't!" Ian was yelling now. "Because YOU hurt HER. But she still loved you." Ian's voice cracked.

The tears were coming now, but Ian wasn't done. "And her face. Her face when electricity was running through her body. It was the same face she had when she looked at you. She loved you, Father, and you molested her. You beat her with a rod of hatred that she received, and turned back into love for you. You crippled her life."

Vikram's eyes were shut, but the tears still poured out of them. A nurse walked in, but stepped quickly out when she saw the man's clenched fists, and Vikram's tears.

"And I'll always have her diary's words in my mind. She wrote about you, and she said, 'Often I imagine I am impressing my father. Often I make up scenarios in which I rescue him, and impress him so much that he loves me forever, and stops beating me. But usually, I dream that I stop an enemy, or capture the last clue.' " Ian's eyes were red. "A nine year old girl wrote that, Father." He nearly spat the word. "And you tortured her, and you beat her, and you destroyed her." Ian drew in a quick, shuddering breath.

"And she gave her life. She gave her life, because of you."

When Vikram looked up, Ian was gone.

Ian was not surprised, nor was he sorrowful, when he heard that three hours later, his father died. The Lucian poison he had poured into his water was quick acting, and the man had lasted longer than he'd thought, giving him a chance to make up his mind about speaking to his father.

He stared at his sister's picture, which hung next to his mirror.

She had looked so much like Vikram. She truly could have been, "Daddy's Little Girl", but for one thing: Her father was a jerk.

His cell phone rang. Picking it up, he answered, "Hello. This is Ian Kabra speaking."

"Hello? Ian? This is Amy. I called to take about your Dad."

Ian sucked in his breath. "Don't call him that." His teeth were clenched tightly. "His name is Vikram."

Amy didn't say anything for a long second. "Oh. Ian? Do you want me to come over? You seem bitter, and maybe talking about it would help."

Ian frowned. "I don't need any help. I'm a grown adult, and I can deal with this by myself. Good day." He pulled the phone away from his ear as though it were ice, and was just about to hit the red button which would stop the call, when he heard Amy say, "Ian? I'm already here. I'm on your front porch."

Ian sighed. "Great. I'll let you in. But don't expect me to be all open and everything."

"Good." Amy said, and then hung up.

Ian looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was blotchy where the tears had dried.

Sighing deeply, he went to the front door. Maybe he did need a little help after all . . .

* * *

 **I had to stop it there. Grass-Berry doesn't like Amian . . . so I had to make sure I didn't squeeze any in.**

 **But guys, you can take this whichever way you want. :DDDDD**

 **Also . . . . MERRY CHRISTMAS.**

 **I realize this isn't really a Christmas story, but I don't think that was stated in the rules . . .**

 **Love you all!**

 **-Addict**


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